


Brandished Steel, Wicked Rook

by regalmilk



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Macbeth, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 20:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17988128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regalmilk/pseuds/regalmilk
Summary: Charles’ bare skin is awash in flame and darkness as he lies there, hair splayed over his forehead and eyes as black as crow feathers, glistening. His lips are bright and wet and red. And he says, in his red way, “All hail, Macbeth.”AU in which Erik and Charles are Macbeth and "Lady" Macbeth, respectively.Inspired by both the original play and the film version of Macbeth (2015) directed by Justin Kurzel.





	Brandished Steel, Wicked Rook

**Author's Note:**

> In this, "Macbeth" serves as Charles' and Erik's surname since traditional last names were rare/non-existent in 11th century Scotland.

The castle of Inverness bows under night, tall and rigid, stripped to its blackest. It plays host to the celebration of victory. Its deepest corners are crowded with all desires, all manner of lust and secrets that spill from loose tongues and looser flesh.

Its foundations are crutched in steel, a cold shine from the rafters and the doorway keystones, so that its master might control it entirely, both in ceremony and physicality. With a sweep of his ringed hand, he might bring the palace tumbling to the ground. This is his way. Some call the lord of Inverness brutal, but when the horns of war are sounded, it is a hailed quality, and his presence on the battlefield is always first beseeched by Scotland’s king.

—

“Do you think me mad?” Erik asks him. “That all I’ve said and have seen are naught more than depraved visions?”

“No.” From Charles, it is a whisper. “I do not.”

“You are quiet,” Erik says. “Your belief is half-hearted.”

“It’s not.” Charles lifts his eyes. “Killing Duncan will not bring you any respite.”

Erik turns to him, his shadow moving across the wall, a fire in his throat and in his loins, now unsated but almost, and his gaze catches on Charles’ bare shoulder. His temper would wane quickly when goaded in such a way by any other, but Charles’ words are golden circles, trailing and overlapping themselves. Erik would follow their paths into the layers of hell. It is a game, a dance Charles allows only him to play opponent, and Erik sometimes thinks he would burn the world to its ends to give Charles the challenge he seeks.

Charles smiles, a red smile. “But it will bring you a crown.”

And it is enough. It is the ringing of the clearest bell in the barest wind. All he needs. Erik gathers up all of Charles, his weight, his heat, the folds of his clothes, and lays him out on the dining hall table.

“Tell me again,” Charles is nigh already panting, fingers curled roughly in Erik’s sweat-damp hair, still grimy and wind-ravished from the battle against Macdonwald’s forces. “Tell me what they said to you.”

“Can you not read it in my mind?” Erik’s frustration stems from the paleness of Charles’ neck. It is far too white. Too unmarred. He plans to change that. Like he plans to change so many things.

“Of course I can,” Charles laughs. It is sweet and unyoked, but there is something dangerous in it. His fingers tighten in Erik’s hair. “Tell me.”

“‘Hail to thee, Thane of Glamis.’” Erik opens his mouth over a patch of white on Charles’ neck and sucks it with greed. Charles’ eyes go black in the torchlight. “‘Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor.’”

“ _Cawdor_ ,” Charles repeats in a low hum. He rocks his hips up to find Erik’s. “And what more?”

Erik feels Charles in his mind. He wants. He wants Erik, he wants a kingdom, he wants Duncan’s death, he wants _at_ Erik. Titles, and crowns, and power, and armies. A name that will forge Scotland. He wants Erik so badly.

Charles’ thoughts flood him so completely that Erik realizes he’s trembling from the sheer force of their single-mindedness. A tear threatens his face.

“Oh darling, no.” Charles lifts himself to kiss Erik’s mouth, the tear on his cheek. “I want all for you. For _us_. I would fix your courage so we cannot fail.”

Erik shoves him back down against the table. His hands are still shaking, but he can no longer tell where Charles’ thoughts end and his own begin. He makes his way through Charles’ clothes, planting his thumbs in milk-stained inner thighs. This is Charles’ approach, Erik knows, because his own is slow and worshipful. But he obliges. He continues.

“‘All hail, Macbeth.’”

Charles’ bare skin is awash in flame and darkness as he lies there, hair splayed over his forehead and eyes as black as crow feathers, glistening.

Erik’s cock aches.

“Again.” Charles’ voice is breathless. Bruisingly tender.

“ _All hail, Macbeth._ ” Erik growls for him, at him, and then into him.

Charles pins down every thrust with one of his own, back arching off the table and the sting of desire and his own strain in his shoulders. Erik takes him in hand as he fucks him, and Charles’ breath falters utterly. “Erik.”

“ _All hail, Macbeth._ ” Erik feels the words on his tongue, sharp and savory like the earth’s salt. Charles is beautiful beneath him, and Erik lets him know this. Charles will be beautiful still, in a throne of his own, worthy of his splendor, a crown of pearl and light. He will rise like the dawn, Erik’s indispensable right hand, his thoughts like birds that gather all those under his vast shadow to his control. Erik feels his peak in the sheer thought of it, feels Charles edging him there, a vicious, adoring, all-consuming pull.

“All for you, darling,” Charles’ voice is in and out, like the tide over a grey shore.

“Charles,” Erik quakes in his stead. There is no rhythm, no pattern in his pace. It is a wild cavalcade of breath and slick and pulse. At the same time he is grounding into Charles, he can feel a dagger in his grasp, its starved blade stabbing into Duncan’s heart, over and over, hacking away at the sinewy nest of delicate muscle.

And then Charles tilts his head, the long harp-like curve of his neck set ablaze by the light of the torch. His lips are bright and wet and red. And he says, in his red way, “All hail, Macbeth.”

And Erik comes, his entire body a shuddering sail, against the lyrical echo of Charles’ voice in his head. Against the dagger’s metal, a vivid thing he can already feel on his skin.

Charles follows softly, powerfully, like a tremor born of the destruction of the first. Erik is careful in his collapse upon Charles’ body, and there is a moment when he can see the blush painted on the other’s cheek, the undying affection in his gaze.

But then Erik speaks.

“‘Thou shalt be king hereafter.’”

Charles reaches up and kisses him. Deeply, slowly, darkly. _Glamis, Cawdor, all of Scotland._

The light flees.

In its place, his crow-eyes glint, waiting for the rot of kings.

**Author's Note:**

> Justin Kurzel's Macbeth is one of the most technically stunning and visually gorgeous movies I've ever seen (and Michael Fassbender stars as Macbeth). Nearly every frame is perfectly manicured and could easily stand alone as a painting, and the soundtrack is so fittingly haunting. It's Shakespeare come alive, in the most vivid and brutal way, and yet, somehow, is so incredibly underrated/unknown. 
> 
> This is my small PSA: please go find and watch this movie if you haven't seen it. It's brilliantly crafted and is easily (in my opinion) the best film adaptation of a Shakespeare play. 
> 
> tumblr: @ [regalmilk](http://regalmilk.tumblr.com/)


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